The absolute political genius of the seat-warming Queensland Government simply never ceases to amaze.
Or never cease to amaze those who don’t know the buggers whose bums warm the padded leather pews in the House of Broken Dreams anyway. I know many of them, and I am far from amazed at the cretin’s seemingly incredible incompetence: in fact I’m not surprised at all.
Put yourselves in the Cabinet member’s shoes for a moment if you will.
You’ve had the extraordinary f*ck up with the opening of the Redcliffe railway line, where through sheer incompetence the relevant Minister(s) – although the Tradinator will never admit it – have failed to check whether the Fat Controllers of locomotive department that falls under the portfolio have employed enough Thomas the Tank Engine drivers to steer the locomotives and their paying passengers into the city of Vegas so that the said punters can get to work.
They haven’t, and the punters don’t get to work – not for days, in some cases weeks – and it takes months for the Minister left holding the can to put up his hand and say ‘Gee, I really stuffed up and probably shouldn’t be in this job, because I can’t do it’. But finally he does, and Pounds Stirling the Property Developer’s best friend exits stage left, fortunately for him in a last ride in a limo rather than a never coming trip on a train.
Despite the fact that trains have been big news for months, and caused the non-corrupt corporation otherwise known as the one seat majority Qld Government all sorts of political pain, the incompetent Minister’s successor – and predecessor, not that she’d ever admit it – the Tradinator fails so utterly to get across her old/new portfolio that she doesn’t even realise that the Fat Controllers who are utterly bereft both of train drivers and common sense are, for reasons unknown both to the Minister and simple logic, sending out auto generated rejection letters to locomotive drivers of umpteen years experience who are offering their services to get Queensland commuters back on track.
Never mind though, the Government has bigger fish to fry, for the Adele loving Sports Minister from Springwood has forgotten that if fifty thousand fans of a torch singer tramp all over the inner of a footy field they are going to f*ck it right up, and thus the women’s sport success story of the decade is scuppered and the unbeaten Brisbane Lion’s women’s team are forced to relocate their first ever grand final to the unfamiliar climes of the Glitter Strip.
Don’t you worry about that either though, because the hapless halfwit’s holding both portfolios get their heads together and dream up a hell of a great plan to save the day, and with half a bit of luck perhaps even save their Ministerial careers too.
The pair of geniuses decide that they are going to soften the sportsfans bitter blow by offering them free public transport all day Saturday all across South-East Queensland. It’s a cracking idea the Beefcake and the Tradinator decide, and they agree to share the spotlight and divide the inevitable kudos down the middle. Of course neither believes the other will keep their word about the split, but each knows the other is the second most ambitious leather seat warmer in the house, so taking one to know one neither holds the inevitability of future duplicity against the other.
Out goes the press release: whoosh!
How good is this hey? Free travel all day and all night! What a sensational piece of political pork barreling. What a vote puller. What a work of genius by two geniuses.
It would have been anyway, if the Beefcake and the Tradinator hadn’t forgotten to check one simple but vitally important little detail.
The track closures..
Remember when they built the new Redcliffe line and everyone in the government forgot to check if they had enough drivers to steer the trains?
Well they’ve done it again.
The main rail lines north are all going to closed on Saturday night for scheduled maintenance work. Every line from Roma Street north.
It’s going to be bedlam. Absolute pandemonium.
The Shorncliffe, Petrie, Doomben, Redcliffe, Nambour, Landsborough, Ferny Grove and Airport lines – every single service from Roma Street to Northgate- will be shut down from from 7.30pm on the busiest Saturday night of the year, when all the services are free, and stay closed until the sun comes up on the Sabbath.
All of the footy games end after 9.00pm, except the women’s.
We’re all rooted. Half of Brisbane’s not going to be able to get home until three in the morning. Trains south will be majorly affected too. There are aren’t enough buses in Australia to carry home the number of passengers who will have arrived at the footy on the train. There are going to be delays of hours, lots of hours, heaps of them.
The punters are going to go ballistic. There will be riots in the streets.
The idiots from QR didn’t check the footy calendar before scheduling the maintenance.
The imbeciles from the House of Broken Dreams didn’t check the maintenance calendar.
Jacki Trad and Mick De Brenni got lost on Tuesday trying to find QR headquarters, where they were due to give a lecture to senior rail management on strategic planning. After walking around in circles for an hour and a half they gave up, and went down to the waterfront for a bang up feed instead.
After lunch and a few drinks they were going to catch the bus back to the House of Broken Dreams, but neither of them had a Go Card handy – in fact neither of them knew what a Go Card was – and when the driver told them the price for a paper ticket they said in unison ‘Bugger that for a joke! It’s extortion’ and called up the ministerial limo to ferry them back to work because it was too bloody hot to walk, and anyway they’re both too important.
Come one. come all – jump aboard the magical mystery train and take a ride for free!
We’ve been taken for a ride alright sportsfans, don’t you worry about that.
If it wasn’t such rank stupidity , gross incompetence and a wholesale disruption to sports loving Queenslander’s lives it would almost be funny.
But it’s not. This is serious Mum.
You f*cking idiots. How could you screw this up so badly?
Wonder what Anna’s excuse is going to be about this one?
ACT ONE: THE BEGINNING
In the beginning the earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep…..and true believers blew bubbles
After a noteworthy career as a junior sporting star Michael ‘The Beefcake’ De Brenni is
elevated elected to Queensland’s parliament by The Kingmaker the voters of Springwood.
The Beefcake declares in his
maiden inaugural (sexist language removed by order of the ALP PC Council) speech that when the environment is under attack and the natural beauty of our land needs defending … I will stand up for it.
No-one at the time realises that he is referring to a cricket pitch.
ACT TWO: COME ON AUSSIE, C’MON
All summer we’ll come flooding through the gates, to try and get a look at cricket’s greats; no matter what the season, we always have a reason, to shout out come on Aussie with our mates ….
The Beefcake attends a cricket-related even at The House of Broken Dreams and receives a complimentary gift pack containing cricket paraphernalia. Sources present at the time say that The Beefcake’s kit is devoid of a middle stump or balls.
Our hero is seen walking the halls of the House of Broken Dreams with the bat from his gifted kit upraised. It is the first time he has been witnessed with the wood erect since he was seen emerging from the Minister for Everything Related to Women Except Their Husband’s office in the early hours of winter’s day.
Honest Rob Pyne – the wheelchair bound former footy superstar and Brownlow medalist of the House of Broken Dreams, who these days kicks goals by putting up private members bills based on ALP party policy and watching from the stands as Labor boot them down – asks The Beefcake if he has suddenly got his bat up so that he can turkey slap him with it (Honest Rob has been causing Beefy’s crew a few problems in the preceding weeks).
Displaying the life-long devotion to the national (blokes) summer game that has seen him spend many a workday sucking piss in an ALP sponsor’s corporate box, the Beefcake channels Lillee on Miandad and tells Honest Rob that he’d like to hit him for six.
Archie suggests to the crowd that a wee pill or a sly puff may cheer The Beefcake up, but is unilaterally ignored.
ACT THREE: DREAMS FULFILLED
Love me tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled; for me my darling I love you, and I always will …..
Wild Bill (Byrne) Hickok shoots a few rats in the roof and himself in the foot, and is sent to the country for a spell and a spot of fishing. He loses his hair on his journey.
The Beefcake is appointed Minister for Sport.
Good judges speculate that Queensland’s long run of success in State of Origin is soon to come to an end.
The Beefcake ignores them, and pronounces that he is determined as ever to deliver significant reforms across the building and construction and housing sectors.
The sportsfans of the Pineapple State are puzzled, but rather than moan they flick the channel on the remote to a rerun of Splendor in the Grass to avoid Wild Bill shooting at them, or the Beefcake coming after them with a complimentary cricket bat.
ACT FOUR: CHASING PAVEMENTS
Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere …..
The Beefcake signals his singular ignorance of Australia’s war history and declares that the Adele concert – inexplicably held on the wicket at the Gabba, just weeks before the AFL season is due to kick off – will be the largest single gathering of Queenslanders anywhere, anytime, even though there are actually two of them.
He travels to Suncorp Stadium with the Member for Saving the Reef and His Own Political Future By Moving to Murrumba and Approving the Adani Environmental Disaster and declares that a couple of hundred seats will be lost so that he can erect a 147 square meter big screen for Queensland footy fans to admire himself upon.
Premier Whatevayousay cringes and lets out an audible gasp, but like the tree that falls in the forest nobody hears her, for she is has walked a thousand miles and a thousand more on a pilgrimage to the AFL stronghold of India accompanied by a delegation of Mayors whose fiefdoms rest an 1000 miles and 1ooo miles more from the Whitsunday Islands.
The delegation are in the East-Asian prefuct of Letsfrakdugasnrekdarif on a sacred mission to Save the Barrier Reef, and as the Premier marches down the famous Mynebyproduksindawatrkilcoralunfish Promenade with crochet needles in her palm an ever-growing adoring crowd of wildly applauding Adani executives trail in her wake.
ACT FIVE: IF YOU CAN’T FIX IT., F*CK IT
There’s no smoke, no flame; if you lose that pilot I can fly your plane – If you want solid ground, come on and try me; I can take you so high that you’re never gonna want to come down
The Beefcake learns that while he is somewhere at off-stump, in the middle of her f*ck this and f*ck that mid-song one-way conversation with the kiddies at the concert his much loved flame-haired alterDelnate fantasy chick Adele has f*cked the middle of the Gabba ground: to his abject horror our hero realises that the faux- feminist icon has, aided and abetted by her support act Accidental Anna and the Guileless Gang Featuring MC Mickey Mick, thrown the Lions to the circus, and that it is he who is left holding the white-tipped ringmaster’s cane.
Caught in the spotlight, the Beefcake instinctively grabs a pair of the nearest posies of pansies, demonstrates the depth of his sporting credentials by gyrating them simultaneously clockwise and anti-clockwise – right and left – throws his right leg in the air, channels his third favorite red-haired vixen Toni Basil and shouts ‘Oh Mickey!’
Overwhelmed by love, the moment, and a familiar sense of self-importance, the Beefcake cuts short his solo before reaching the start of the seminal second verse ‘what a pity you don’t understand’, and instead screams that If the women’s footy players can’t cop our groomed wickets the pitches, we’ll drop the bloody groomed wickets on them and the studs can kick goals on the grass all over the pitches’.
A 12 year old whose dad has just grounded him for 10 days for laying 10 feet of his mum’s black PVC compost liner over the newly laid $175 a square meter turf in the backyard of the family’s 2500m2 Rochedale South mansion tugs at the Beefcake’s sleeve. and having gained his attention – their are no female rangas in sight – pulls hims aside.
‘It takes 2 years to prepare a drop-in pitch Mr Beefcake’ the kid tells him. ‘I just Googled it on my iPhone’.
The Beefcake quickly whips out his smart phone, asks his assistant – he has forgotten the boys name, there have been so many – how to use Google, hands the phone to the unknow socialist soldier, gets it back, stares intently at it and declares to the media that he must apologise profusely, but he has somewhere else that he urgently must go.
Our hero sprints for the exit – bystanders time his 100m sprint at 22.4 seconds – jumps in the ministerial limousine, cocks his left leg to warm down his hamstring, smiles down at the redhead grinning back up at him, and in response to his driver’s question of ‘Where to Minister?’ barks back ‘Anywhere but f*cking here, as long as its got plenty of grass, and keep your beady eyes on the road’.
Credible sources report that the ministerial motor was last spotted refueling with the Ministerial corporate card at Blue Knob, approximately 20km north of the NSW town of Nimbin.
ACT SIX: WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER
Together, together, together everyone; together, together, come on let’s have some fun….
The first grand final of the hugely successful women’s AFL competition cannot be played at the premiership leading Brisbane Lion’s home ground the Gabba due to damage caused by the high heels of the feminists attending the Adele concert.
The home grand final is moved to the Lion’s rival ground at the Gold Coast. The Lion’s opponents Adelaide rejoice, for the Lion’s away record at Carrara Stadium is not flash. In fact the premiers have never played on the ground at all.
Somehow the scheduler forget that AFL team the Gold Coast Subs have been long scheduled to play their first game of the premiership season on the same day, with the kick-off whistle slated to blow just 3 hours after the full-time hooter in the women’s grand final.
Pandemonium reigns. The AFL, caught in the middle of a logistical nightmare, announces convoluted plans to shuffle fans from one part of the ground to the next under security guard in order to accommodate the contractual rights of ticket holders to both games.
The Beefcake, safe in the arms of his fourth-favorite flame haired sheila, is however unruffled, and invites all of Queensland’s 4 million residents to travel free of charge on the South-East Queensland transport network to attend the women’s final at the 25 000 seat capacity Carrara Stadium.
Constituents in Rob Pyne’s Cairns electorate – who are picking up the tab for the day of free commuter transport in the South-East corridor of the State – claim that they’ve been beaten with a cricket bat.
The Beefcake, unruffled by the negativity of his critics, travels with his young daughter in the Ministerial limousine to Brendale, 100 km north of Carrara Stadium. There he tells all 4 million Queenslanders that he and his daughter are pumped for Saturday’s AFL Women’s Grand Final.
His daughter – who has just watched Gone With the Wind for the 32nd time on her father’s government-issued iPad – turns, smiles, and innocently asks the Beefcake
Frankly my Dad, so full of hot air, do you think they give a damn?
The crowd of seven – each political staffers – turns, and walks away.
The Lions, cheered on by just a few thousand fans – their numbers boosted markedly by the many hundreds of disinterested freeloaders chugging Crown Lager and chatting about housing developments – are defeated by the Adelaide side who are lifted by the spirited sea-changers that make up the majority of the Metricon Stadium crowd after the free trains from Brisbane fail to turn up at the station.
The LNP wins each of the Logan electorates in a cakewalk at the next state poll, and the Beefcake is consigned to the dustbin of incidental Queensland political history. He takes with him the complimentary cricket bat that once brought him such immolate fame.
Australia routs the Poms 5-0 in the 2017/18 Ashes series after winning the first test at the Gabba by an innings and 217 runs. Kevin Mitchell (Junior) is acclaimed by the nation, and around the cricketing world, for preparing the outstanding wicket that afforded both sides the opportunity to engage in a honest game of cricket – a quality so absent during the Aussie’s tour of India playing on wickedly biased drop-in pitches – and affording the Baggy Green Caps an even deck upon which they could show their prowess in the first test and lay a platform for the series success
ACT SEVEN: WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE
It’s so cold out here in your wilderness; I want you to be my keeper, but not if you are so reckless …
The Beefcake, alone and palely loitering in a park to which dozens once flocked to adore him as he proclaimed his greatness, sits under a coolibah tree, a pair of cheap white pods adorning his oversized ears.
He is lost in his thoughts; the Beefcake’s head bobs in a figure of eight as he listens to his Adele playslist, and dreams of his long lost Del.
‘It’s just water under the bridge’ he softly hums, as the teardrops fall and roll in the deep of the Logan River, where they are swept away into the nothingness of the Adani mine despoiled sea.
Just as it was before, it shall always be.
So I get appointed to the top job at Microsoft. Well. no I don’t, Bill Gates head hunts me for the job and tells the other directors of the company that I’m if they want to do it they need to do it right – ‘Right?’ – and that I’m their man. They nod their heads, as they’re wont to do, and I get the gig.
Microsoft requires a mob to go and knock on doors to find out what the net-surfing punters think about the new Windows 10 (anecdotal feedback is that everyone over the age of 30 hates it like poison). There are a million and three door-knocking outfits out there, but someone in the door knocking department knows my missus runs one of them, and putting together a tender offer is a pain in the arse anyway, so they give her a ring and offer her outfit the contract – which is worth a lazy $200k – and they accept, and Bob’s your bloody uncle.
The missus comes home and tells me that her nine to fivers are going to be knocking the doors to find out what the mugs think about the new operating system, and I look up from the race form and say ‘good onya luv, that’ll keep ya busy’. It never occurs to me to say mmm, I’m running the whole windows show darling and perhaps its not that great a look that we’re giving you a contract like this under the table, and people might start to ask awkward questions. Why would I? She’s been copping contracts like this from mobs that I’ve been in charge of for years, and it’s never been a problem before.
But some third rate writer that nobody reads writes an article about me, the missus and the contracts, and by some f*cked up twist of fate somebody actually reads it, probably one of those bloody ,ministers the writer used to smoke bongs and drop happy pills with in their younger days as lawyers or union hacks – I told Bill to keep the lefties sidelined, but the other bloody Bill decided to take all his cash before he carks it and go fishing, and the young bloke he passed the baton to f*cked it all up – so anyway, now the boss knows.
I get hauled into Bill’s office and he’s not happy. In fact he’s ropeable, and rips and strips three-quarters of a million shreds off me, one for every dollar of the missus’ contracts. I just stand their in front of Bill’s desk and cop it, because I’m not bloody stupid – even though right at this moment I feel it: whoever thought that anyone would read that mad blogger’s crap? – and I understand Bill’s angst, because neither of need online help to explain the vista lying there before us.
The XP is that these other bastards led by a Toolman named Tim are silently circling the wagon – rumor is that the cat’s got the Tollman’s tongue, although some say that he’s actually the cat – just waiting for the right moment to launch a hostile takeover of the company, and Bill and I and everyone in Microsoft know that they’re only one short of the numbers on the board to do so. Any little f*ck up we make and the raiders are in the Gates, through the Windows and breaking down the Palacz door, and if they crack the operating system we’re all f*cking Gonzo, so this is megabyte serious Mum.
So I stand there and cop the defragging from Bill, and when he’s downloaded all his anger he sits up straight on the Palacz throne and says D-YOG – that’s what he calls me, it’s short for dig your own own grave, and sound sorta hip and cool and appeals to the younger generation, or at least that’s what the missus’s Microsoft funded focus groups tell us anyway, although I prefer just plain Dave – I’ve had a chat to the cistern analysts and they’ve dumped us an Alan-line fix to avoid the system crashing.
‘You CCC D-YOG’ Bill barks ‘We’re in a bit of binary here’, and I nod my agreement, having learnt how to nod like a marionette from the best of them, they being the senior execs of the company who accompany Bill in PR photos taken out in dos user land.
‘If we let this bloody hacker’s logic bomb go viral it’ll turn into a time bomb and we’ll be rootkit’ Bill proclaimed.’What we’ve got to do is put up a firewall and convince the trolls that this worm’s nothing but a spear-phishing black hat, and that his updates are simply a denial of service attack. If we play this smart we can re-route this script kiddie and show him up for the Syrian Electronic Army Trojan keyboard warrior that the packet sniffer really is’.
They don’t call Bill a genius for nothing do they dot comma’s?
A rower went to sea, sea, sea – to see what he could see, see, see – but all that he could see, see, see – was the bottom of the dark black CCC
I’d explain in detail the way we reprogrammed the server through the back door and isolated the bots, but you’d need to be a highly skilled political systems analyst to understand it, so allow me simply to put it in layman’s terms and tell you that I self-referred to Bill’s personally appointed kilt-edged son of a fur pocket (SOAFP) who’d got the gig after doing the CC Cleaning business for Bill – and also his mum Anna and dad Pete -a million megabytes before, and was thus an anti-virus agent you could depend on at a time your fragile system was under a brute force attack.
The SOAFP did a quick scan and declared that the operating system virus free (he wasn’t looking for worms). Then the Mac signed off to say that Microfsoft WOS all apples; none of my bits were corrupted, and that they might look that way was simply due to spoofing and social engineering by hacktivists on a mission to bring the corporation down.
The system administrator has decided to isolate me from the rumpole@bailey file check as a precautionary measure to ensure that the whalers can’t exploit our top-level vulnerabilities, but notwithstanding any zero day exploitation you can go to bed tonight safe in the knowledge that queensland.com’s system is micro-soft, secure and corruption free. Don’t you worry about that.
Make sure you get a good night’s sleep sportsfans: the missus’s mob will probably be knocking on your door nice and early tomorrow. Tell them you love paying a tenner to get to town on the train that occasionally arrives too will ya? There’s a performance bonus in it for us.
Editor’s note: Non- Microsoft shareholders may find this dictionary useful to understand the technical terms relied on by the Queensland CCC – https://www.dailydot.com/debug/hacking-security-glossary-adware-bot-doxing/
Part 2 of our exclusive series unveiling the close ties between the child protection charity Bravehearts and the institutions that for decades sexually abused children, concealed the crimes of the perpetrators, vilified victims and actively sought to deny them the right of redress.
A man named Karl Morris is the Deputy Patron of Bravehearts, the organisation that receives more than $5 million funding from the Child Abuse Royal Commission to provide counselling and support to victims of institutional sexual abuse by pedophiles, and to advocate on the victims behalf.
Mr Morris was for many years previously the Chairman of the Bravehearts board.
Morris a board member of the Catholic Foundation of the Archdiocese of Brisbane, and a board member of the Sydney Catholic Development Fund, the Sydney Archdiocesan Investment and Finance Committees, and the Brisbane Archdiocesan Investment Committee. These funds and committees are responsible for the management of the Catholic Church finances – including the funds utilised to pay reparation to sex abuse victims – and have contributed hundreds of millions of dollars to the church’s consolidated assets during the past decade.
Morris (far left) with fellow member of the foundation. The portly, shiny red-faced, bespectacled buffoon to his immediate left is lobbyist Damian Power – familiar to readers of this site as The Branch Stacker, an virulent critic of homosexuality and dedicated anti-same sex marriage activist
Karl Morris is presently a Governor of the NSW and Western Australian Catholic University of Notre Dame, a church owned and operated tertiary institution that was created under the Apostolic Constitution of the Supreme Pontiff John Paul the Second. Pope John Paul II has been the subject of world-wide criticism for his failure to acknowledge or address child sexual abuse by priests and church laity during his 27 year reign as head of the church.
For many years of Morris’s governorship the disgraced former Catholic Archbishop George Pell was the titular head of the Notre Dame University.
Morris is a close friend and strident supporter of George Pell, a central figure in the Royal Commission’s investigations into the cover up of child sexual abuse in the Catholic Church and, on the evidence presented to the Commission, a man almost certainly involved in protecting pedophile priests and concealing their crimes. The architect of the widely condemned Melbourne Response to allegations of child sexual abuse, Pell is himself presently under investigation by Victorian Police for suspected child sex abuse offences he committed in the 1980’s.
When visiting Brisbane Pell has dined at Morris’s house, and is believed to have stayed overnight in the Morris family home on more than one occasion.
Australian Financial Review: 17 November 2012 – http://www.afr.com/news/politics/inquiry-risks-a-return-to-sectarianism-20121116-jij39
Morris is also a close associate and friend of Geoffrey Jarrett, the Bishop of Lismore, who has been adversely named in the Royal Commission as a protector of paedophile priests. Jarrett has admitted to the Royal Commission that he did not pass on a 2002 complaint in which a woman told him that she has walked in on a priest in the act of sexually abusing a child in the Lismore cathedral in 1959.
Jarrett has also admitted failing to pass on numerous complaints of sexual abuse, claiming that he did not understand the instruction issued to do so by the Vatican because it was written in Latin. It has been confirmed by the Royal Commission that an English translation of the Vatican’s decree was also provided to Jarrett.
In 2012 Morris shared the podium with Jarrett as a speaker at the Catholic John Paul II Leaders Forum. Then Archbishop George Pell was the patron of the event.
In 2012 Karl Morris was invested as a Knight of the Equestrian Order of the Holy Sepulchre, an ancient and somewhat secretive Catholic order that led the medieval crusades. Its principal mission remains to reinforce the practice of Christian life by its members in absolute fidelity to the Pope; to sustain and assist the religious, spiritual, charitable and social works and rights of the Catholic Church and the Christians in the Holy Land.
Karl Morris at his investiture service upon becoming a Knight of the Equestrian Order of the Holy Sepulchre, wearing a black beret and to your right of Archbishop Coleridge, holding the staff
The Child Abuse Royal Commission has to date conducted 57 case studies examining institutional child sexual abuse.
Approximately 40% of these case studies have involved various institutions owned and operated by the Catholic Church.
The authors of this website neither question the genuineness of Mr Morris’ desire to address child abuse within the Catholic Church and without, nor do we claim that Mr Morris is in any way involved in the perpetration or concealment of child sexual abuse; but we do say that a number of people with whom he is closely associated clearly have been.
It is a well known dictum that perception is nine-tenths of reality. Child sexual abuse victims must perceive Bravehearts to be free of influence from the institutions that have violated them, and must feel confidence that assisting them to seek justice is the paramount interest of the organisations that the Royal Commission has funded to assist them in their quest to heal.
Hetty Johnston, Karl Morris and others involved in Bravehearts who will feature in the series published on this website have. knowingly or unknowingly, with our without intent, by their associations with the institutions that abused them broken the trust of many victims, shattered their hopes and dreams, and left them wondering Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
If the guards can not protect us, then who will protect us from the guards?
7, actress, alimony, american, australia, australian, blanc, california, cash, channel 7, channel seven, children, court, david, divorce, driver, flight, france, french, george, hello, home and away, interview, jean, jean-david, law, legal, magazine, melissa, melissa george, money, night, paid, paris, separation, seperation, seven, sunday, sunday night, uber, us
American actress Melissa George – yes she’s a Yank, we’ll explain in a second – made a heart-wrenching appearance on Channel 7’s Sunday Night program a couple of nights ago in which she tearily detailed the abuse she suffered at the hands of her former partner Jean-David Blanc, and decried the injustices she is facing as a result of legal sanctions the French courts have placed on her ability to travel outside of the country with the couple’s children.
It was emotional stuff that sparked an outpouring of support for George from all quarters, and was followed up the next day my a multi-page spread in Hello magazine that was part two of the deal her agent cut for George to exclusively tell her tale to the media stablemates for an unknown but undoubtedly substantial pile of cash.
Now I’m a passionate advocate for putting a stop to domestic violence and abuse, and have a long and demonstrable record of railing against violence against women. That doesn’t mean however that I naively swallow every tale of alleged abuse that I’m told, for in my game it pays to maintain a healthy skepticism about everything I read and hear, particularly when I’m only getting one side of the story, and in a heavily edited and slanted paid interview at that.
So I have to confess that I have some major reservations about the terrible tale of abuse that Melissa George is telling us, and want to bring to your attention some of the things that I suspect that she is not. I’m a great believer in balance, and given that the French privacy laws regarding the publication of material relating to the dissolution of personal relationships prevent Jean-David Blanc from putting his side of the story, I’ve decided to serve you up a small platter of food for thought from the alternative perspective..
Here it is.Make of it what you will.
On the Sunday Night program, and again in Hello magazine, George has pleaded for help from ‘her country’, meaning Australia. But Melissa George is not an Australian and this is no longer her country: she is a citizen of the United States and has been for almost the past decade, during which she has lived exclusively overseas, in the US, Chile, Argentina and France, only briefly returning to Australia during that time to visit family or for short-term work engagements on mini-series such as The Slap.
When she became a US citizen in 2008 George – like Rupert Murdoch before her – knowingly and willingly renounced her Australian Citizenship, as all new Americans who take the Naturalization Oath of Allegiance to the United States of America are required to do under section 337(a) of the US Immigration and Nationality Act.
This is the oath that George swore almost a decade ago:
I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to … any state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen.
In layman’s language it means piss off Australia, I divorce you – I’m now a Yank.
There’s no two ways about it – George is no longer an Australian citizen. So why is she pleading for help from Australia, the country she turned her back on (not to mention sledged viciously a couple of years ago, but let’s not get into that). The reality is that in the unlikely event that the US and Australia declared war upon each other Melissa George would be fighting with the GI Joe’s not the diggers, so if it’s help from her country that she wants, it’s Donald Trump to whom she should turn.
The Assault Convictions
Contrary to what George is telling the world through her PR spin doctors and the lazy, compliant Australian pulp media, the domestic violence episode that spawned all this controversy wasn’t a one way street: she and Blanc both suffered injuries in the affray in their apartment that 2016 evening, and in February of this year each were convicted by a French court on a single count of domestic assault.
In making his ruling the presiding Magistrate rejected the competing allegations made by each of George and Blanc that the other wholly to blame for the affray and the assaults and held them equally to blame, determining that their respective injuries were caused as consequence of ‘Violences Volontaires’.
Ths French legal phrase literally translates to ‘voluntary violence’, and accurately reflects the court’s finding that:
(a) the parties were involved in a physical fight in their home on the evening;
(b) each inflicted injuries upon the other during the fight;
(c) it was not possible on the evidence presented to determine who may have been at fault or which party was the prime protagonist in the affray.
Blanc has lodged an appeal against his conviction. It is not known whether George has also lodged an appeal, although it is reasonable to assume that she would have brought the matter to public attention if she had.
Curiously, in the paid interview aired last night George made the unprompted remark about the incident and her subsequent break-up with Blanc that “It was a separation that shouldn’t have happened. It was an accident and it got out of hand and now I have to suffer the consequences”.
This statement of course appears totally at odds with the widespread claims the actress has made – and repeated last night – both about Blanc’s alleged violence expressed in the assault, and his behavior toward her during their relationship and post-separation. Unfortunately Sunday did not probe George further on the issue, so the important questions raise must remain unanswered for now.
George’s claims about the extent of her injuries are also highly questionable.
The actress , who did not attend the police station to lodge a complaint about Blanc’s alleged attack until 3am, after which she says that a police detective escorted her to a local hospital due to concerns about her condition, which she told the Sunday program last night included marks around her wrists, bruising on her back and hip, a broken inner lip and a huge lump above her eye
“The worst part” a tearful George told the Sunday reporter ‘was my neck. My neck wasn’t able to move, turn left, right, up or down”
Yet the very morning of the assault, only hours after she had made her police statement and allegedly been admitted to hospital, George was photographed in Paris driving her children to their creche, and again snapped walking them to the creche gates, and in these photographs George shows no visible signs of injury or impairment.
This begs a number of questions, and when considering them it is important to be aware that the photographs of George lying on what appears to be a hospital bed and displaying clearly visible bruising around her left eye were not in fact taken on the day of the assault, but rather some 8 days later.
The first question seems obvious. If, as she claims, George’s neck was injured to the extent that she could not move or rotate her head, then why did the medical staff at the hospital to which she claims to have been admitted not either
(a) insist that she remain in the medical facility overnight for observation and treatment; or alternatively
(b) treat her neck injury prior to discharge by following the usual medical practice for injuries of this type, the application of a brace?
That the hospital did neither of these things is decidedly odd, but it is nowhere near as strange as the next question:
If George’s head and neck were immobilised as a result of the damage wrought by Blanc during his assault, then how on earth was she able to drive a motor car just hours after these injuries were incurred?
The obvious answer is that she could not, which by itself casts huge doubt over George’s teary-eyed tale, but it is nor the only disparity between the actress’s account of the seriousness of her injuries, and the photographic evidence of mere hours later. Take some of George’s other claimed injuries for example.
Although it is difficult to ascertain because the actress is wearing the de rigueur hat and glasses of her trade, the prominent injury around the eye displayed in the photographs taken more than a week later is not obvious or seemingly apparent in the photograph of George (above) taken with her son and mother-in-law just hours after the assault.
Similarly, in the photo (below) taken the same morning, there does not appear to be any visible bruising or marks on George’s wrists of the type she described; in fact there are no physical signs at all indicating that Blanc had violently restrained her by the wrists in the that the actress has repeatedly claimed. It’s a most curious anomaly isn’t it?
The Uber Driver
The claims of the alleged Uber driver Owais Atique need to be viewed cautiously as well, given that this is the first time that he has spoken publicly about picking George up that morning and taking her to the police station, and more importantly, that the immigrant low-wage earner was presumably paid for his interview by the Sunday program.
The cash for stories method of reporting has always presented issues regarding the veracity of the claims made by those that have induced by payments to make them, and just ask yourself this question: if Atique had said that he did not clearly recall picking George up that morning, or if he told the Sunday reporter that he didn’t notice whether she was seemingly injured or not, do you imagine that the program would have proceeded to strike a contract for payment for such a bland tale? It appears unlikely.
The Attempted Exodus
It is accepted fact that a week after the incident that led to the couple’s immediate separation George attempted to leave France with her children on a private jet without Blanc’s knowledge or consent. When he became aware of her intended flight Blanc immediately sought and was granted a legal order preventing the plane from leaving French soil; and made a corresponding complaint to police about the incident. Investigations are ongoing.
George has repeatedly made passionate assertions that the aborted trip was to be for work purposes, that it had been planned for a month, and that it had been agreed to by Blanc.
This appears to be a highly disingenuous claim however given the events of the previous seven days, for the couple’s world has suddenly shifted on its axis. Their relationship disintegrated and they had separated following the incident in the apartment; both had made police complaints of assualt by the other, and court appearances were pending; and their personal travails had become public and were being extensively reported internationally in a media blitz driven largely by George’s team. Plus there were the usual post-separation details to be dealt with: kids, living arrangements, finances, and more.
Clearly all bets were off, and arrangements made a month before – when George was gushing effusively to the media about the joys of their relationship – were off too. The couple had entered a brave new world of criminal charges, court supervised custody and access arrangements, and the dissolution and dispursment of their joint assets. Overnight all had changed utterly, and George surely knew it.
In these circumstances George’s claim that her actions in attempting to remove herself and her children from France to the United States – where she and the children hold citizenship, but Blanc does not – is simply spurious, and damages her credibility immeasurably. As do her present claims that her children are being prevented from visiting their relatives in Australia: the actress was not taking her kids to Perth to see their Grandma, she was taking them to the US. And here’s why.
Melissa’s Likely Motive
The French laws applying to relationship breakdowns and family matters are very, very different to those that apply in many US states, including those of California, the home of Hollywood which is where George was likely to have fled.
Parenting arrangements are almost identical in both jurisdictions, and very similar to those here in Australia, with shared care and joint parental responsibility the default position. But the major difference – the pivotal issue for those wanting to properly critically examine George’s claims – is that whilst both country’s laws allow for what we in Australia know as child support payments, the US legal jurisdiction also provides for the payment of alimony (or spousal support) to the partner in the less advantaged financial position, whereas the French jurisdiction does not.
As highlighted earlier, George is a US citizen and as such, provided that she travels on a US passport – which she does, hence her complaints about not holding a French work visa – she is entitled to the protection of the US courts. This means that, based on extensive legal case precedence, once the actess sets foot on US soil with her children she is highly unlikely ever be ordered by a US court to return to France, and may commence legal proceedings in relation to the separation without fetter.
Such an action would undoubtedly include an application for an alimony order, and all of a sudden Melissa George is rolling in clover, for if matters relating to the dissolution of the relationship had been dealt with in France the best she could have been afforded was a one-off property settlement as a division of the joint assets of the relationship, and ongoing child support payments allowing for the provision of the children’s reasonable needs.
Under the French legal system, all of these matters are determined in a closed court process that does not allow for depositions, contested claims, cross-examination or reporting by the media, which of course blunts the ability of a high-profile litigant such as George to employ a suite of extra-court strategies such as a PR campaign to attempt to force a larger settlement in their favor.Of course no such restrictions apply in the US of A: in the home of the brave and the land of the free it’s simply open slather.
That’s not the main game though, it’s just an add on.
The real deal is Alimony, the payment of large sums of cash from here to eternity by the wealthier former partner so that their former partner may be maintained in the style to which he or she (usually the latter- only 3% of alimony claimants are men) had become accustomed during their relationship.
This means big money for Melissa George – huge – because the State of California applies a formula that determines spousal support by taking into account the relative earning power and assets of the parties. While George’s annual earnings are estimated to be around $2 million in a good year, and her assets a not too shabby $5 million (which makes it seem odd that she’s crying poor), the internet and entertainment tycoon Blanc pulls in several times that in an average month and is worth an absolute poultice, which means that any court in the Golden State is going to award George plenty.
Now call me a cynic if you will, but I reckon George has 100 million or more reasons to have legal matters relating to her separation dealt with in her home country of the United States rather than on Blanc’s turf in the straight down the middle legal system of France. In fact, at the risk of being flayed by pro-Melissa brigade, I reckon there’s a wee bit more than an outside chance that she’s playing us all for fools.
But hey, I’m just a third-rate blogger that no-one reads, and I don’t pay punters to tell their stories on my website, so what the hell would I know? So I’ll leave you to make up your own mind, and exit stage left but one word of sage advice: don’t believe everything you see and read in the mainstream media.
annastacia, bourke, cabinet, ccc, chief, commission, comms, contract, contracts, corruption, crime, dave, dave stewart, david, david stewart, declaration, department, head, interests, limited tender, office of premier, palaczszuk, palaszczuk, pauline, pauline bourke, premier, process, projects, projects qld, projects queensland, public, public service, qld, queensland, referred, register, register of interests, tender, the comms team, transport
That’s how an eminent member of the judiciary – well actually, a bearded Stipendiary Magistrate – described this corruption busting website during a hearing in which the beak threw out yet another application for judgement in the ill-fated and totally misconceived defamation action the dead-child-sledger Dandy Andy McMicking is pursuing against the author of this website.
That’s strike three for Dandy and his hapless lawyer Huddo the Hardman who assaults elderly women (real name Paul Hudson; firm name Hudson Leighton but there is no Leighton, it’s the loser’s middle name), but McMicking is used to losing, having missed out on at least 3 ALP preselections that we are aware of, including the infamous internal Labor battle to be the party’s candidate in the council ward of Enoggera, during which Anna Bligh pointed the finger at the perennial bridesmaid McMicking as being the source of a CMC complaint about the victor Michael Dart.
McMicking of course denied the charge, just as he denied calling the little baby Leo that Sky News broadcaster Paul Murray and his wife sadly lost a ‘grub’. Denial appears to be the man’s stock in trade, but there’s no denying one thing and that is that the only grub in little Leo’s life story is Dandy Andy, and we’ll prove it if he and his lowlife legal adviser ever grow the balls to take the defamation matter to trial instead of trying to blindside us while we’re on mercy missions overseas, and don’t you worry about that.
Anyway, back to the third-rate blog that nobody reads crack, and while it wasn’t incumbent upon moi as the defendant to disabuse the beak of his mistaken notion – loose lips sink ships old Mum always said, adding that what they don’t know won’t hurt them, ‘they’ being any bugger on the opposite side – I reckon our old sparring partners The Australian have given us up on page 6 of today’s edition with their story about ‘Dig Your Own Grave ‘ Dave Stewart stepping aside from the CCC investigation into Minister Mark Bailey in favor of referring himself and his missus to the politically stacked crime and corruption fighting body instead, after we broke the exclusive news about Mrs Dig Your Own Grave’e company copping nearly $3/4 of a mil in government contracts since her old man was appointed Queensland’s public service chief a couple of years ago.
Now our story was bang on the money, as was our revelation that at least 200 grand worth of contracts were awarded without having gone to tender under a little used loophole that allows companies to be offered contracts directly under certain criteria; criteria which by our reckoning wouldn’t have applied to these particular contracts in a month of Sundays.Equally as accurate was the information we revealed about Bourke’s company – which was set up about the same time that Dig Your Own Grave became head of Projects Queensland a few years back – copping a couple of lucrative contracts at the time to consult to guess who?
Projects Queensland. Go figure.
It only gets worse for Dig Your Own Grave Dave though, because in what can only be described as a crazed attempt to deflect attention from the dubious award of the contracts, and to raise an early defence to the allegations we’ve raised about a giant conflict of interest, Dig Your Own Grave has told The Australian’s reporter Mickey McKenna – a fine investigative journalist if ever one was born – that:
I have consistently disclosed (my) wife’s employment and business dealings.
It would be perhaps a saving grace, except for one tiny, wee thing.
It ain’t true.
More to follow……
Dave Stewart – the public service mandarin, not the rock star from Eurythmics – is the Director-General of the Queensland Department of the Premier and Cabinet, a role that renders him the most powerful bureaucrat in the Pineapple Land.
An engineer by trade, and a favorite of Labor governments across the eastern seaboard by design or perhaps just good fortune, Stewart was a few years earlier the Director-General of Transport and Main Roads, but in 2012 was sacked in controversial circumstances in the fiasco that saw him replaced by LNP mate and former Brisbane Councillor Michael Caltabiano, who lasted about 23 seconds in the job before being forced to stand down over a ‘jobs for the boys and girls’ scandal that effectively ended his government career.
Stewart copped an almighty redundancy payout (about half a million bucks by all reports) but before too many months had passed found himself back at the top echelons of the state bureaucracy heading up Projects Queensland, the razor gang otherwise known as the Treasury Commercial Group that was (and still is) charged with the responsibility of selling the State by holding hands with commercial operators and public-private ‘partners’ and helping them to pick the eyes out of any government project that looked remotely profitable.
That gig lasted about 12 months before Stewart jumped ship to NSW to perform a similar role for the Government down there, signing huge private contracts for the building of roads and tunnels that once upon a time would have been constructed by highly skilled government workers, but since they’ve all been sacked over the past decade is now the domain of large, and usually dodgy. private firms that devolve the work to smaller but even more dodgy subcontractors, a large number of whom collapse owing everyone plenty about 5 minutes after they’ve cashed their last government cheque.
It must read well on resume I guess, for the very first thing newly elected Qld Premier Annastacia Palaczszuk did after being sworn in as the boss was to bring Stewart back to Queensland as her hand-picked right-hand man running the public service.
The question is though, did the Premier know that she was getting two for the price of one, because where Dave Stewart goes his Annie Lennox goes too, even all the way to the Queen’s man’s mansion where Daphnis lives.
Annie’s real name isn’t actually Annie – that was just me trying to be funny – it’s Pauline Bourke, and she’s not just Dave Stewart’s musical collaborator, she’s also his wife. They must like each other’s company a lot too because they seem to work to work together quite a deal, particularly on jobs that Stewart’s in charge of, like the Government Wireless Network project, or the State Infrastructure Plan, both plum consultancy roles won by an outfit called The Comms Team that in what I’m sure is an absolute coincidence is directed by none other than Pauline Bourke, the boss’s missus.
Now I’m sure that Dave steps away from the stage when Annie puts her hand up to sing Karaoke, because it would create a massive conflict of interest and be an abrogation of his responsibility as a public servant if he didn’t. But it’s not a great look when the company run by the wife of the bloke in charge is winning lucrative contracts left, right and centre is is it sportsfans?
Can you imagine the outcry at the Bunger RSL if Kevvy actually had a missus and she was given not only the karaoke hosting gig on a Saturday night, but exclusive rights to run the door, sell the drinks clean up afterwards too? The punter would simply go beserk, and quite rightly too, for despite the fact that a bird’s got the right to earn a quid no matter who her old man is, there’s this little thing called public perception that’s pretty important when you’re entrusted with the keys and given the green light to run the state.
That’s why it worries me so much that since Dave came back to enjoy the sun and run the big show for his mate the Premier, The Comms Team has been awarded nearly $3/4 of a million worth of government contracts over and above the Wireless and Infrastructure gigs they copped when Dave was in charge of Projects Queensland.
This is them below, extrapolated from the government’s open data website.
What worries me even more though is that 2 of the 4 largest contracts – the ones worth $158 224 and $55 000 respectively, sum total $213 224 – were issued by limited tender, which in layman’s terms means that they weren’t publicly advertised in the usual manner, but instead that The Comms Team were approached directly by the government and asked to name their price.
It’s what we call in Geebung a ‘jack up’ or a ‘gimme’, and by the Government’s own procurement rules the highly questionable method of dishing out contracts is only supposed to be used, and I quote:
in very specific circumstances, such as under extreme urgency or if goods and services can only be provided by one supplier (e.g. a commissioned work of art).
Bearing this in mind, can anyone explain to me how a contract to run the communications and ‘stakeholder strategy’ – that means working out what color paper the junk mail flyers should be printed on – for a project to review (ie increase) public transport fares can be either:
(a) Urgent, when there are a million communications companies out there in the marketplace who are perfectly willing and able to spin a hike in how much you pay to wait an hour for a train to work into something akin to sex with a supermodel; or
(b) Able to be only supplied by one provider, when every bastard unlucky enough to be stuck at home in the daytime knows that there are more communications companies out there wanting to engage with – preferably in their eyes by phone – than there are snowflakes in Antartica, or Invercargill, New Zealand at the very least.
Similarly, how does a seemingly run of the mill gig such as being the Queensland Tourism and Transport Strategy contractor fall into either category, unless of course one contract leads to the other, and if that’s the case then the questions become even hairier.
Running the train down the same track (if we can find a driver without paying the bludger triple time), how does a contract to go knocking on punters doors to see what they reckon about our public transport system fall into the ‘selective tender’category?
To put you in the know,.selective tenders are, and I quote again:
Where they (the department letting the contract) have determined that only suppliers who have met certain pre-established criteria may submit a bid. This may require you to hold certain prequalification or accreditation.
What, like owning a bloody telephone? You’d have to be kidding wouldn’t you? Someone is surely having a lend of us you’d think, and do you know what? I reckon you’d be just about right because to a simple fella from Geebung like me the way these contracts have been awarded seems as hot as the electrical gear Larry the Lifter flogs to unsuspecting punters out the back of the Bunger carpark on a Friday night when the cops are on a changeover of shift. Very bloody hot indeed.
I reckon that someone needs to explain to the average sportsfan exactly why a company owned and operated by the missus of the bloke who heads the whole Government show is being awarded contracts with dollar figures on them that most could only dream about, without the missus of the big boss’s company being required to tender for the money spinning assignments on an open and competitive basis.
If it’s good enough for the mug commuter to compete in a survival of the fittest game every day to get a seat on a dirty old jam-packed QR train, then in my humble opinion its good enough for Dave’s bird and her mob to compete on price, quality and service for a contract to charge us more for the privilege.
That’s my humble opinion anyway.
What do you reckon?